


Love Like Mangoes

by suburb



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Gay, Holocaust, M/M, Revolution, Sadism, Violence, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:44:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1995516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburb/pseuds/suburb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>World War II AU. The one where Liam and Harry are Jews, Louis a misfit German soldier, Niall a hat-knitting nurse, and Zayn the son of one of Europe's most powerful and corrupt business lords. </p><p>Not for the faint of heart, or the impatient; bear with me and this heavy web of a plot, and boy-love you shall receive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Like Mangoes

**Author's Note:**

> First fan fiction - here we go! This one does get rather intense, but for the sake of juicy plot, have some faith in me. I hope you have as much fun reading this as I had writing this.
> 
> P.S. The OC Villian is a total piece of shit, and I maybe had too much fun making him this way, but trust, the boys will get their revenge.
> 
> (Dedicated to my editor & comrade, [aeroplane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroplane/profile).)

**Love Like Mangoes**

**Act One: Love Like Cherries**

* * *

  **Liam**

 

The last thing I remember is a crack.

Was it the belt itself? My back? My skull? I recall it in flashes. I was running for what felt like an entire day. I started before the sun rose, continuing until it began to dip back down. They said, " _Jewboy –_ faster!" And I tried. I ran so fast, I thought I was floating. I thought my feet fell off in retreat. But my body kept going, lapping the commander’s house precisely 1,233 times, a lap for each prisoner, they said.

"Take off the shirt, _Jew-whore!"_  And so I did. I had to peel it off my body, the sweat sticking onto me for dear life. I began sobbing. I felt myself slipping out of control.

"Was it worth it, my little cherry?" The commander shouted from the rooftop, cigar smoke rising up from his face. His name is master Yuri, and he’s had it out for me since day one. On the morning of arrival, the Jewish boys and girls were separated into different camps. Then, each gender was separated by age group.

"Under eighteen – over here!" A German boy that looked to be my age directed the children into one colossal line, leading them off to a facility in the distance. Following that, adults between thirty and fifty were directed elsewhere, and then the elderly back into a truck. Why? I hoped they were bringing them home. I had hoped that’s where they were going. But I was terribly wrong.

"Guess that means you’re mine." It was Yuri, the first time I ever saw him. He stands at – at _least_ – 6 feet and some inches, with blonde hair and blue eyes; this is the image of my enemy, whether I knew it or not. He trailed down the line of young adults and brushed a hand across some of our cheeks, including mine. Every dozen or so boys, he’d tap one on the forehead, his guards kicking each chosen boy onto their knees and pressing guns to the back of their heads. On his round back from examining the group, he froze before me, looking down into my eyes and reaching into his pocket. I still don’t know why he chose me. I don’t know what I did to deserve Yuri’s wrath, or attention.

"You know what a cherry is, don’t you, beautiful?" The arid climate suddenly built up in my throat, leaving me without response. He pulled from his uniform a cherry, holding it up between my eyes and keeping a cold stare with me. I never saw him inhale.

Of course, I know what cherries are. My grandfather had a cherry tree in the back of our lot. It was beside my father’s apple tree, which loomed over my small, but growing mango tree. Each generation of men chose a fruit to grow and tend to during their life. My grandfather told me it teaches us compassion, diligence, and patience. I decided on the mango because I never had one, and they didn’t grow or sell them where I come from. With that, my father saved up and imported one tiny mango seed for my eighteenth birthday – the best present I’ll likely ever have.

Yuri leaned in closely, his forehead pressed up against mine, the smell of cigar on his breath. I felt him exhale. I still did not see him inhale.

"What’s your name?" It was said so low and calculative, I thought the soil and sand beneath me crawled up and pricked the skin off my back. My throat was fighting to stay silent, but I knew that this could be a deadly situation.

"Liam." A smile crept across his face, the cherry now between his mouth and mine, his thumb and forefinger holding it by the stem. My heart was beating so heavy, I thought it was going to burst within my body. He dangled the cherry between our lips, the fruit bouncing off one mouth and hitting the other.

"And aren’t you going to ask mine?" His other hand grabbed his gun and pressed it against where my near-exploding heart was, the cherry pendulum still swinging. I nodded my head nervously, opening my mouth to ask, when suddenly he stuck the cherry between my teeth.

" _My_ name is master Yuri," he shouted to the entire group, his baritone voice suddenly echoing across the expanse, "and as of now, you are _all_ mine." The spit from his shouting covered my face, but I knew better than to wipe it away. He stared at me for just another second before he backed up to acknowledge _his_ boys as a whole. He pointed his gun up into the air, a bullet soaring into the sky. That was the first of many gunshots I would witness in my life, but I didn’t know that yet. Following the gunshot, by some immediate instruction, the guards that had guns against the back of select Jew boys’ heads cocked their rifles.

"You are all my precious, red cherries," he continued to monologue, spinning his gun by the strap and eyeing each boy in the line, "and if you want to strive and survive into a beautiful cherry tree –" He stopped to take another gunshot into the sky. The guards pulled their triggers, dozens of Jewish boys falling face-first into the earth, their blood coating the ground before them… like dark, thick cherry juice. A clamor of gasps and cries surrounded me, but I dared not move the cherry from between my teeth, though I was nearing self-detonation. I knew then, I had discovered Hell.

"- then you will follow my instructions." He dropped his rifle onto the ground, swiftly walking over to me in a sweeping stagger, pressing his hand beneath my chin, slowly pressing up until the juice of the cherry drowned out onto my teeth and lips. He caught the falling juice in the cup of his hand, my tears pooling with it. He raised his hand to his mouth and gave it a lick.

"Liam - _hmm,"_ he went on, as if he wasn’t considering the taste of the cherry, but rather the taste of my name. He wiped the remains across my cheeks, reaching into my mouth and pulling out the cherry-stem I’d buried between a gap in my clattering teeth. He held it up and smiled, popping it into his mouth and chewing on it as he walked away.

"Alright, boys; you will follow my soldiers into Camp Scheherazade. Once you are within the gates, you will find that we are sharing our beloved grounds with a similarly-sized group of Jewish girls; do not acknowledge them, do not speak to them, unless specific orders are given. You will collect your identification numbers, your bunkhouse, and then report to the camp center!" He picked up his gun and strapped it around his shoulder again, pointing out to the group with the tip of his rifle.

"Except, of course, my undertakers; if I graced your cheek earlier, _you_ lot will help me with the unfortunates." He gave us a wink, and the majority of the group disappeared past a gate opening that read, in German and Hebrew, "She Whose Realm is Free." Only sixteen boys remained, but at least thirty dead bodies colored the dirt around us. It was just us and Yuri. Thinking back on it, we could have taken him on; we could have overwhelmed him, stolen his gun, and ran. Yes, there would have been casualties, but even more lives would have been spared in the long run.

"There are little more than 1,600 boys in this camp," he began, that number devastatingly lower by now. "That number is not arbitrary. We have sixteen bunkhouses that can, _comfortably_ ," he said this with a sick tone that made me think he was lying, and he was, "fit about one-hundred of you boys. You will each be responsible for a house of boys. You will report each morning and each night a head count, and if that head count is different from one day to the next and _you_ can’t explain why, and _we_ can’t explain why, well," he shrugged his shoulders, pointed the gun at the group, and sent a bullet that almost struck a boy in the head, "you will be the one to answer for it. Are we crystal?"

I thought back to the day it all began; the door being kicked down, soldiers rushing in to grab my family, my sisters shouting in fear, my mother and father in protest. I was in the backyard with my childhood friend, Harry, when a German soldier came through the backdoor and beckoned us to follow him. It was the first time I ever saw a gun, and one of the last times I would see Harry. We grew up together, studied Hebrew together, he was my first friend and, out of natural experimentation, my first and only lover. He was always the popular one, surrounded by romantic conquests since I could remember; maybe he had sex with me as a favor, or out of pity. Nevertheless, Harry was the only thing that kept me grounded, aside from my family and the mango tree.

"Let’s make this easy," the Gestapo soldier ordered. But it’s never been easy – not once. Not during the travel from home to Scheherazade, smothered into trains like lifeless cargo, my family and friend being carted off to unknown destinations, and not now, with the my hands around the wrist of some dead soul, dragging him to a deep hole outside the camp that must have been dug in preparation for this exactly. I felt the humanity in me disappear every moment that passed. I think I’ve been crying since day one, but it’s pointless. I have to listen and obey; else, I am the dead cherry between Yuri’s teeth.

 _"Was it worth it, my little cherry?"_ Yuri waited for his answer, taking a puff from his cigar while fingering the trigger of his rifle. His eyes are as cold as ever, a tight smirk on his face, as lifeless as ever.

"No –" a gulp of air, "sir!" I stumbled from having to use my breath for anything other than running. Beyond the fence-line, between two bunkhouses, I saw pastures. Out there, I saw a hill that likely held freedom beyond it, the sun taunting me, kissing the top of it – calling out to me. I could have kept running forward; I could have not made the left turn to continue circling the building, but I knew better. I knew every moment was a fight for survival.

With that, a bullet grazed my arm, a patch of skin going with it, the metal striking the earth below with a devastating roar. The dirt and rocks danced around my feet, catapulting up into my legs and stomach. It felt like one thousand tiny bullets, slamming into my body all at once, trying to dig inside and finish me off, little trails of blood curling down my shins and waist. In shock, and certainly not by conscious decision, I collapsed to the ground, my head cradled between my legs, my fingernails digging into the soil, as if I was planning to dig myself out – bury myself right there, or crawl to America.

"Up!" I heard, with furious grunts and footsteps surrounding me. I couldn’t look up. My body would not listen to my brain any longer. My tears dampened the soil beneath me, and despite my situation, I hoped maybe flowers would grow. I hoped they would end me right there, my face in the dirt, the smells of nature seeping into me like an anesthetic, and out from my pores, maybe the flowers would burst and bloom. I held that image for a moment, counting on this sudden euphoria to take me away – then I was being dragged.

" _(tsk, tsk)_ My favorite little cherry," Yuri called down to me, his hands wrapped around my bloodied ankles, "juicy as ever." My face was scraping across the dirt, the sounds of gasping prisoners nearly smothered by the laughter of the guards. I mustered the energy to turn my face to the side, my ears being torn rather than my eyes and mouth. Off before me, standing at the windows and doorframes of the bunkhouses, I could see the prisoners watching in horror and desperation. There is nothing they could have done that would not end in their death. They were not watching out of entertainment, or curiosity; they were thanking me - for what I tried, but failed, to do.

"Why, why, _why_?" Yuri continued to taunt, several of his fingers drumming against both of my Achilles’ tendons, "I thought we had crystal understanding, Liam boy." Suddenly I was thrown up against a brick wall, my forehead crashing against the surface and my arms held secure by two of the guards. I heard the unraveling of a belt, the snickering of the Germans. I inhaled slowly, painfully, my body shaking in response, my knees wiggling in exhaustion.

"I made you run extra, you know. You passed the 1,233. I just let you keep going, because it was something I liked to see." I felt the slick leather gliding against my back, slowly outlining my shoulder blades. He was letting me know that I lost, and he was claiming his prize. "You know I like you – you really do. I can see it in your eyes. You think you have a slight power over me, and you know what?" A sudden strike slammed against my back, my chest collapsing against the brick, my breath shorting out, an involuntary scream exploding from my mouth. "Maybe you _do_. Maybe you _really_ can _fuck_ –" a strike of the belt, " _with_ –" another strike "my _head_!" and another, more painful than the last three combined. With that, the guards had let go of their grip, and I immediately crumbled to the ground. Every sound was muffled behind my breathing, my uncontrollable weeping. Two hands were pressed onto my bare shoulders, a cruel show of mercy as they gently massaged my reddened, begging skin.

"You – anything -" a spare few of Yuri’s words reached through to me, when he suddenly leaned very close, his lips pressed against my ear so that I completely understood, "never defy me, and I will see that you live - _forever_."

The words sent a shudder through my aching body, my head spinning from the sounds and pain. I was still on my knees, looking into the brick as if it held an answer deep in its cracked and crumbled surface. Involuntarily, my weak arms lifted so that my fingers brushed down the mortar, as if it would peel open and the arms of God would greet me, wrapping me in his warmth, taking me away from Scheherazade, assuring me that Yuri would never touch me again, never stare into me again, never taunt me with the fruit of my grandfather’s tree and crush it like the bloody masses that fester in holes outside the camp walls, the Mariana Trench of my kind.

"I," I began to whimper, struggling to form coherent words, "can’t." Even now  I, coming to consciousness in the medical building, the room curiously absent and quiet by some grace of God, do not know what I was denying, or admitting. Was I crying out from pain? Was I was warning myself to stop thinking of the dead, only think of the now? Maybe I was giving up on trying to discover the mercy of God within the mortar, or giving up completely, and I was accepting that this is my life now; I am to be the ragdoll of a twisted German man, and unless I keep myself together, I am bound to die at Scheherazade.

I must have been unconscious for days. My clothes have been changed, my body is free of blood and the scars of Yuri’s torment are healing over. I look out the sole window of the room to see the sun peeking between a pair of bunkhouses, the only constant thing I can rely on. I attempt to raise my hand, to wave at the sun in gratefulness, but I’ve not enough strength to move in the slightest. Instead, I remain in my bed, staring out at the sun and watching the occasional German and Jew trail by. I pray for my people, and I pray for the Germans. I pray for the sun.

A jolly-looking blonde doctor comes in after a while, his blue eyes promising no harm and even some rejoice that I’m back to life again. He introduces himself as Doctor Niall, and continues speaking to me as if we’ve been friends forever. I don’t respond much, except for the occasional nod or groggy laugh, and I trail off onto thinking: why would they bring me into the med building? Jews, we don’t receive this treatment; only the German soldiers are treated and cared for in illness or impair. The doctor flits about the room in a tone of energy I haven’t witnessed since Harry, which brings me back to the days of the mango tree, the apple tree, the cherry tree.

Suddenly, I remember what the crack was. It was not the belt, or my back, or my skull. It wasn’t even so much of a crack – it was a pop. My mind trails back to being on the ground before that brick wall, the soldiers croaking around me, the shouts and gasps of people in the distance, the sun completely absent then. Yuri released his grip on my shoulders, placing a hand on my chin and turning me to face him, a cherry hanging between his eyes and mine, a thumb and forefinger seconds away from squeezing the cherry lifeless.

"Isn’t it romantic?" he whispered, before popping the fruit, the cherry juice splattering into my eyes, then, out of failure to deal with it any longer, I blacked out – as if on cue. My emotions were fried, my head was fuming in anger, depression, desperation, my body was short-circuited, and now, I remember what I was denying then, what I was promising to myself, what I remembered to tell myself when I began to see the faces of the dead in the brick wall before me.

"God, I can’t. I cannot fail them. I cannot." And then – I was out.

 

* * *

   **Zayn**

 

"The master sent me for you."

I turn to the doorway of my quarters to see a young Jewish girl. She’s wrapped in a thin lace material that is so transparent there’s no reason to even be wearing it. A silk, crimson bow bounces atop her light hair, make-up caked on her face in what appears to be an attempt to recreate a porcelain doll. She attempts to coo me over by brushing her back against the doorframe, lowering herself until one hand is on the floor, the other undoing the bow in her hair. A collection of interesting sounds, what I suppose is intended to be moans, escape her lips, as she rubs her immediate surroundings like a cat in heat. I give pause.

"And why would he do that?" I mutter, turning back to my paperwork. My name is Zayn Malik, Chief of Scheherazade Finances. My father is Yaser Malik, a world-renown European business magnate and, much to my annoyance but eternal safety, best friend of Karl Thomalla, head of camp construction here at Camp Scheherazade. Because of this alliance, my family and friends are safe from the ravaging of the Gestapo, and in an effort to continue this motion of peace, I act as a liaison between the Malik enterprise and the commander of the camp, master Yuri Liebehenschel. Alongside my role as the messenger-boy, I control the ebb and flow of Scheherazade money, which makes a great deal of sense, considering my father practically funded the entire construction of the camp in his make-shift security contract with the whole of the Nazi Party. I doubt his “charity” put even a dent in his wallet, but there’s certainly a hole in his moral compass – if he even has one.

I’ve met my father four times; three of those times, it was in passing, and the fourth and final was to alert me of my upcoming position here at Scheherazade. Not exactly the best father-son relationship, him and I. Nevertheless, despite how innocuous the Germans are to _me_ , who they are and what they do is disgusting, and I can only thank my father for not letting me get beat to a bloody pulp by the Gestapo because of my Austrian roots, though my bloodline gives me a deep-tone complexion.

"Because," she begins, purring back up the doorframe, "it’s your birthday." And it really is, but I don’t know why Yuri cares. He has been trying to befriend me since day one, with the private dinners in his house and the countless boys and girls he sends to my room for pleasure. I’ve never touched one of them; he thinks I have, though, for their safety. I wave her over to the bed.

"Just close the door behind you," I groan, continuing on with my paperwork. She moves to the bed-sheets, sprawling out and turning over to her side to present herself to me, but I keep working. 7,300 Marks. That’s how much Reichsmark we spend on the production and upkeep of bed linens. Absurd.

"How do you get your hair to do that?" She twirls her hair around her fingers, another hand massaging up and down her thigh. The lighting above my bed hangs so that everything above her breasts are not illuminated which causes no increase of interest but rather makes me think on how many Marks we spend on lighting. I did the math. 5,570 Marks. Less than the fucking bed linens, I tell you.

"Gel." I don’t have the gall to look into how much these people spend on beauty products. I take out a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer of my desk and swing around to face the Jewish girl.

"What’s your name?" Her eyes suddenly expand as if I asked her to jump off a building. She leaves her sexual pose and instead sits with her legs crossed, deciding on how she wants to answer.

"15159303," she gently says, with a lack of confidence that destroys her previous bravado. Her eyes keep to the ground, as if she knows she’s done something wrong, and is prepared to take the heat for it.

"My God, not your numbers," I take a swig of whiskey, "I’m not interested in _that_ shit." I stand up and move beside her, lying on my back and bumping the whiskey against her arm, offering it in peace. She looks back at me, her worried look escalated into absolute terror. I forget how cautious they must be. I could just as easily be tricking her into a situation that would get her killed, and fraternizing with a soldier likely could. I might get a slap on the hand, but her, she could be strung up for just looking at my bottle of alcohol. 41,960 Marks. Believe me or not, that’s how much Scheherazade spends on alchohol. Absurd.

"I -" she begins, wrapping her arms around her body, standing up out of fear of what to do, "I really don’t know." She stands facing the doorway, as if she is about three seconds from taking off in flight, which would truly be fine by me. I don’t mind her presence, but she’s not here with any real purpose.

"You don’t know your name, comrade?" I say, really trying to ease the tension as I continue to swig the whiskey down. She looks down in utter embarrassment, much to my dismay, pulling the lace-fabric tightly around her body like she’s trying to perform a magic trick and disappear. I sigh, sitting up on the bed, thinking of whatever ice-breakers I can come up with.

"Alright, I got one," I say, nodding my head in my slight buzz, "guess how many Marks they spend on -" I take a second, searching my brain for something interesting, "dog food.” She stares at me with a blank face, as if I’m speaking a different language. I hop off the bed and sit the alcohol on the floor, dancing around the room like a damn fool to loosen her up.

"C’mon, take a guess." She looks back at the floor and shrugs, her toes curling against the carpet as if she’s cherishing the feeling, and she likely is. They give Jewish people dirt, rock, and sand, and they act like even that is too much to give – lackwit bastards.

"Uh," she unfurls her suffocating fabric a smidgen, "a hundred?" She continues to lay her eyes on the ground, as if she’s very sure she is wrong, and doesn’t even search in curiosity for the truth. She _is_ wrong, but well, that doesn’t mean she has to _know_ that. So, I put on a little loss of breath, covering my mouth like in the pictures.

"Ye – yes! That’s correct!" I jump up and down a bit, filtering through the papers on my desk as if I’m searching for the documentation to prove the truth, which would actually have the amount at 6,700 Marks, 400 Marks more than what the Germans spend on food for the prisoners. Disgusting, it is.

A slight grin shows up, but she stays focused on the carpet. I pick up the whiskey and carry it over to her, bumping her on the arm again, making the sound of a dog whimpering, like the sodding idiot I am. Not sure why I’m so determined to learn her name; maybe out of boredom, but most likely out of compassion. I really do want to help at least one of these prisoners feel safe, if even for a moment.

Nothing. I sigh, prepared to dismantle my dignity as I lay down on the carpet where she maintains a stone gaze, her eyes now tricked onto me, a stupid smile plastered on my face.

"Fine, I’ll tell you a funny story," I begin, filtering through my brain for anything actually worth telling. Growing up in the household of a European patriarch, being privately schooled by doctors and professors, raised by a nanny, nothing truly interesting ever happened. I was being suited up my whole life to take over Malik Industries, like a damn monarchy, it was, so aside from the occasional aristocrat losing her wig or business magnate forgetting his daughter’s name, nothing truly great ever warranted much laughter.

"Perrie," she interrupts my thinking, sparing me from utter humiliation, I think. She still looks at me, her brows furrowed a bit in worry, but I think I’ve got an inch of trust here. I hop up onto my feet like a character from the comics, wrap my arms around her and pat her on the back.

"Finally - Perrie," I sigh out, "well, I’m Zayn. Zayn Malik. Son of an asshole and employee of another one," I thumb at the door, indicating that one asshole is Yuri, but she doesn’t respond out of carefulness, which I understand. I nod, letting her know that I know. Then I stand up and approach the door, turning the lock and looping back to see her beginning to strip off the fabric.

"You really don’t have to," I begin, my hands out in the international signal for ‘stop’, "besides, you’re not exactly, well, my _type_." She looks up at me, one eyebrow raised but her hands still dropping the lace onto the floor, her arms hanging by her side, her entire body presented to me like some Greek art.

"Wait, I –" I fumble, "not like _that_ , I mean, you’re a beautiful woman, Perrie, really –"

"I completely understand, mister Malik," she goes on, sitting on the bed in a sudden bout of comfort, her body stretching out and embracing the fabric, "I am sorry I can’t be of service, however." Noticing the fabric on the floor, I pick it up and bring it back over to her.

"You don’t have to get nude for me, really," I offer the lace to her, but she just takes it and sets it to the side of her, a gentle smile showing.

"It’s uncomfortable, is all," she assures me, "but I can wear it if that is what you wish." Perrie still holds a pleasant, inviting look, as if trust has truly began to grow, so following up, I drop out of the night clothes I’ve been in, down to my undergarments. Suddenly, an expression of great confusion spreads across her face. I wrap the fabric around my bare chest and press up against the desk in the best impersonation of Perrie as I can.

"Mistress," I coo sensually, throwing out dramatic hand and head gestures at great volumes, putting on my best impersonation of a French accent, "the Commander sent me." I rub up against the wooden furniture, my ass against the edge, my back curling back to lie over the paperwork, my legs kicking up into the air like a showgirl. A bastardly-large smile is plastered on Perrie, and finally, I think I’ve won.

"I heard it’s your…" I trail off, walking slowly and sexually toward the Jewish girl on my bed, taking off the material and strapping it around her neck, pulling her closer and whispering into her ear, "birthday." We both erupt into laughter, collapsing onto the bed into a fit of play tugging the material until it rips in half, giving pause for just a moment, then continuing to laugh.

She turns to me in a sweeping, romantic motion, "but, I can’t! My father, he’ll never let me wed such a commoner!" Her attempt at a French accent is impeccable, false tears in her eyes seemingly real as any, her hands clasped at her chest as she loses herself in the fun. It is the happiest moment of my life – right there.

"Then, I’ll steal you away, my Perrie! Take you off into the skies!" I pick her up and raise her above my head, like a child, zooming around the room in mock of an airplane, finally falling back onto the bed and exploding into such a genuine laughter, any laugh before then must have been untrue. With that, she leans over and kisses me on the forehead, a gentle expression held. I kiss her forehead back, and it occurs to me that I have made my very first friend – a Jew. And then, it occurs to me how dangerous this is, but I let that thought sweep away with all of the other negatives, my focus only on the ceiling now, with my friend beside me, both of us in ecstasy.

"So," I mutter, "are you finally going to take some of the damn whiskey?" She looks over at me wish a devilish grin, immediately hoping off the bed to collect the alcohol and gulp a mighty swig down. After the burning sensation passes, she looks at me with wild eyes, as if she hasn’t tasted something so wonderful and disgusting ever before in her life.

"My father owned a vineyard," she begins, hopping back onto the bed, curling up beside me, her head up on my chest, "out in southern France. It was my favorite place in the world." She sighs, taking another swig of the alcohol, signaling to me that this isn’t easy to speak about. The whole world behind them must be impossible to think of, not without losing their minds. Even I miss the isolation of my father’s mansion.

"When they came," she falters a bit, emotions rushing in, "they just set it all on fire, you know?" She looks dead into my eyes, a little girl forming before me, scared and helpless. I strap my arms around her, pulling Perrie in for a hug that could potentially be bone-crushing, but I need her to feel protected – at least for right now. She cradles into my chest, tears pooling into the blankets and sheets, which is more than fine. They spend 7,300 Marks on the waste anyways. Absurd.

It was then, moments ago, that something stupid, absolutely idiotic, came over me. My desire to ground her and bring her back from this state of devastation led me to say the absolutely most foolish thing I have ever and will ever say, not to mention careless, heartless, without consideration, but, well, something in me meant it.

"We’ll get you out of here." With that, she slowly pulls back from my grip, her hair stuck to her face from the tears, her face reddened and sore from either my suction or her sobbing. There are a couple moments of excruciating silence, but then she responds, calmly, better than I would have.

"You can’t say that." Shit, I know. I know I can’t say that, and I shouldn’t have, and right now I’m going to apologize and say I was overcome and that there’s no telling what could happen even between now and tomorrow and _shit_ , Perrie, that was heartless and you have the absolute right to punch me in the balls.

"But I did." Fuck. I am a helpless boy, and this beautiful Jewish girl before me is watching someone give her empty promises, but vigorously stand by them, and if I was her, I would be hurt, maybe disgusted, but in contrast, she gently presses up against my shoulder, looking up at the ceiling with me, her hand playing with my hair.

"Thank you," she whispers. And she could be thanking me for just the thought, but maybe she’s thanking me for the plan, for the attempt to smuggle a hostage out of the gates of Hell, and it’s then that I see her other hand brushing against the blankets, right where the pools of her tears met. Initially, I began to think that this is because they don’t get blankets, they sleep on rock or wood and this must be a surreal experience for her, but then, I thought of the vineyards.

I thought that, if I was Perrie, I would be curling my fingers into the wet blankets, hoping that somewhere in the fabric, there were seeds, and that the seeds would burst and bloom into the vineyard from southern France, and that the vines would grow so strong and high that I, which is really she, would be carried off into the heavens and God would be there to take her away from the fucking absurd prison. I want to be her super-vine. I want to be a super-vine for every Jew in the world right now, carry them off to safety. No more pointless dying, no more fear and loss and turmoil. I want the vines to smother and swallow the Nazi party, the evils of Europe, my father, take them away so that they cannot harm another soul.

I look into the ceiling, noticing the cracks and mold in even the most elegant and expensive of construction, and I think of how many Jews are looking into their ceilings right now, or into the face of a beautiful friend, or out the windows, past the Scheherazade gates, into the mystical and powerful gaze of the sun. It’s always there, the sun. I cannot count on the nature of man, or the sturdiness of a structure, but I can count on the sun. And so, I send my thanks, my hands combing through Perrie’s hair as she drifts off into what must be the most comforting sleep she may ever have again. I look over to my comrade, her make-up now disfigured and revealing of a gorgeous, scarred human being, and my purpose, as if struck through my body by God’s will, hits me.

I cannot fail these people. I cannot fail my friend. And with that, I fall to sleep beside Perrie, the Jewish girl worth more than Marks can amount to.

 

* * *

  **Liam**

 

I wake up – again – but this time to the doctor _knitting_ at the edge of my bed. The sun is high up, practically burning through my eyelids, so I blink away from it and try to agree with the lighting in the room. Doc Niall looks over at me, a gentle smile across his face. He puts his half-knitted hat down and moves closer over, pressing his hands against my forehead.

"You went out on me – again," he gently scolds, pressing his freezing cold hands across my face to check my temperature, my pulse, my eye movement, so on. He looks out the window and squints his eyes in mutual disagreement, launching off the hospital bed to shut the curtains. With that, he fetches a glass of water and approaches me kindly, right until he stumbles over the ground itself and the glass catapults onto my crotch, water flying everywhere and my privates unexpectedly assaulted by what was almost a nice gesture. If I wasn’t up before, I am now. Niall stands in shock, scrambling to collect a rag, then dropping the rag to prioritize the cup, then forgetting the cup to make sure that my manhood is fine, tossing the hospital sheets off in a fit before, in a medical way that only Niall could pull off, he examines my privates. I groan in disbelief and annoyance.

"It’s fine, it’s fine," I assure him, pulling his subzero hands out from under my hospital wear and patting him on the arm, "really, it was just an accident; I’m sure I can still make the babies." He gives a few moments of pause, then breathes out in relief.

"Well, there’s good morning for ya," he stands up, mouthing sorry again while pointing at my balls, to which I wave a hand in disregard. He flits across the room to grab some papers, then trails back over to me and sits next to me on the bed, completely, not just on the edge, but right beside me. He straightens out the papers and clears his throat.

"So, the commander," he begins, slowly, examining my facial expressions, which I’m sure transitions from curious to disinterested or distant, "he wants me to read off the expenses for your medical recovery." He pauses until I respond, but I don’t, staring Niall dead into the eyes, waiting for him to go onward. He grabs one of my hands with his, slowly rubbing his thumb around my palm, comforting me somehow before reading off the list of minor and major "repairs," a redefined term made possible only by someone like _Yuri_ , as if I’m a fucking machine, and the costs of each one, building up to one massive, ridiculous amount.

"9,400 Marks, Liam," the doctor totals up, "the medication, the tools, the recovery, that’s how much it had cost." His blue eyes almost begin to glaze over with dread to continue, but by careful instruction, he does, "and he wants you to work that off." The room falls to a deadly, sick silence. I turn my head and push back against the headboard, closing my eyes and listening to the Jews singing in the distance. They must be hanging up the linens to dry, or tending to the gardens, or maybe that isn’t the Jews, but the sounds of angels nearing the medical building, soon to bust in and give me a lift back home, to the past, years before such injustice was developed so that my family and I and Harry could get the hell out of Poland before the Gestapo arrived. It’s a fancy thought, I suppose; I shouldn’t tease myself any more.

 "And how?" I didn’t want to ask, but I did, and I even continued, "and why? These injuries," I brush my fingers across my arms and face, “these are his doing, so why am _I_ ‘working – it – off’?" Niall releases an exasperated sigh, tossing the papers off the bed and laying his head on my shoulder, something he probably shouldn’t do, but he’s the doctor; they’d truly be idiots if they offed the doctor.

"I don’t know the answers, Liam," he says, and he truly sounds sorry, "I just fix up the problems, if I can, and if I can’t, it never matters. Here, everything is broken," his voice dies out, so much I can only barely hear, "no matter what." Despite my inner-voice, I wrap my arm around the doctor and pull him in. If he wasn’t in the position he’s in, and me in mine, I bet we’d be friends. Friendship isn’t so much of a concept anymore, as survival has become the only field of thought people like me can focus on. And with that, the most important question hits me.

"Why did he spend all of that money?" I push Niall up, facing him with a sense of urgency that even shocked me, "I don’t understand. He could’ve just tossed me down the hole with the rest of them, let my wounds fester and leave me like he does to the rest; why did I receive special treatment, Niall?" The doctor just shrugs, looking through the curtains and out the window, probably searching for happier thoughts, like I should be.

"I’d tell you, if I could," he goes, "but if I’m correct about this man’s character, the commander, and the way his mind works," he trails off, distracted by the possibilities of the sun, then comes back, "I think I’ll be seeing you often." He says this, then immediately regrets it, maybe because my face or because he realizes how it could come across, which is exactly how it comes across.

"But listen, you just need to protect yourself at all costs." He scrambles to comfort me, to assure me that the inevitable won’t be so terrible, or maybe that it will be, but there’s no reason to make a big deal out of getting beat to death. "You need to listen to what he says, do what he orders, because he is a vicious man, and he can hurt you, and I don’t want to see you just as much as you don’t want to see me, at least not in here," he finishes off, patting me on the shoulder with a look of concern.

"I was told to become a doctor because it would make me wealthy," he makes a subject change, "but I feel like the poorest man in the world." Niall stands up just in time as the door swings open, two German soldiers marching in by some mechanical training, followed by –

"My revitalized _cherry_ ," Yuri booms into the room, his blonde hair more combed than ever, his commander’s uniform traded for a suit-and-tie look, "have you decided to end your role as sleeping beauty? It’s been a rather costly run, if you haven’t been informed," he shoots a gaze at Doctor Niall, who lifts a casual thumb up in confirmation. "Very well, and I’m sure the doctor has educated you on tonight’s plans?" I look over to Niall, who stands confidently and even somewhat _bored_ by Yuri’s presentational antics.

"I’m not too sure he’s healthy enough, sir," he gets out, before Yuri strolls over in a fit of anger to lift me from my spot, my body cradled in his grip like a damn baby, his fingers clutching into my still-bruised skin. He looks me up and down, lifting my hospital clothes up and sideways to examine my state, my hands almost reacting negatively when he peers beneath my pants-line, a sickening grin passing by for but a moment. He holds me with one brutish arm for a while, then drops me onto my feet, my balance not yet configured as I nearly stumble into one of the guards whose name-plate reads "Tomlinson," and he looks awfully familiar. He doesn’t act phased or angered, but instead, prepares one hand to catch me if I crash, a nice gesture that inevitably goes un-thanked when Yuri continues to bellow his plans for the evening.

"I’ve got some suitable attire for you, and you will be accompanying _me_ to the Officer’s Dinner tonight, so I suggest you start improving your health faster if you don’t want to face punishment – _again –_ for further insubordination," his face looks flustered, before he finally calms to continue, "and I’d hate to damage up my cherry all over again." Niall looks over from Yuri to me, then back to Yuri, then to me again in a state of confusion that would be disastrously funny if it wasn’t such a revolting implication.

"One hour – be ready, Liam." He leaves with a smile and a wave, in the same vein of ‘Too-da-loo!’, before a third soldier that must’ve been waiting outside drops a collective of clothing and the group disappears completely with a door slam. Niall clears his throat, still standing by the hospital bed, confused as ever.

"May I ask, and please, tell me if not, what the _hell_ you _did_ to warrant the beat-down that I’ve been spending days patching up?" But, I don’t know if I have the patience or courage to explain it. I don’t know if it’s something Niall should know, because it’s dangerous information, and what if this doctor isn’t what he pretends to be? What if he’s Yuri’s best friend, his confidant, and every piece of information I give is another step down the commander’s hellish path? How could he not know, though? Does this mean nobody knows? Nobody except those I told in my bunkhouse, the girl, and – oh shit!

It was several days ago, late in the night before the morning of sprinting around Yuri’s house. I was counting the sleeping heads in my building when I heard sobbing, shouting, a threatening bout of noise coming from the side of my bunkhouse that sounded like trouble. Curiosity, stupidity, all of it came over me, and I went to explore what the sounds were.

"On your knees - _go!"_ It was him, Yuri, standing between a young Jewish girl and a guard I hadn’t known then, but now I know to be Tomlinson. "I saw you two eyeing each other, so why not get it over with and shame yourself, soldier; let this _rat_ give you what you want."

"Sir, I do not want this, please," the German soldier begged, his legs shaking out of fear, the Jewish girl bent over in tears. He could see me peaking around the corner, but he said nothing, the first sign that he was different. The girl began to pray feverishly, her body contorting in devastating ways that told me she knew her death was near.

"Oh, you fucking liar! I know you want this! I know you want _this!"_ Yuri placed a gun against one of the girl’s arms and shot, blood and flesh splattering against Tomlinson’s legs, the soldier backing up against my bunkhouse’s brick wall, his face the image of terror, of regret. He turned to me, helpless, but gave no sign he was looking at someone else, Yuri looming over the screaming girl, his boots pressed against her back.

"Do it, you _whore!"_ Tears slowly trailed down Tomlinson’s face, the girl breathing in freakish patterns that told me she had lost hope, her humanity had evaporated. In her pained consciousness, she fumbled up the soldier’s legs, her working hand crawling up to his button, attempting to undo his pants, but her weakness stood against her.

"Are you _crying,_ Tomlinson? Is it because she lost her _purpose_? She can no longer _pleasure you?_ Well, in _that_ case!" He pointed the gun to the girl’s head, cocked the rifle, and shrugged his shoulders, a sign I know all too well. Involuntarily, I began to run.

" _NO!"_ My body was exploding with sound, my feet running as fast as I could manage, but it was too late. The bullet passed through her brain, her body slumping between Tomlinson’s legs, his face covered in horror and loss. Yuri turned to me with a particular expression that will haunt me for the rest of my life – it was his smile.

"My, _my,_ if it isn’t my cherry," he opened his arms as if to offer a hug, but I instead lunged to punch him in the jaw. Tomlinson stopped me, however, and at that time, I might have seen it as a pathetic move to make, to defend such a horrible creature, but I know now he was protecting me. Any other Jew, I would have been shot right there, but Yuri’s unexplainable affection for me has kept me alive past innumerable siutations, my punishment following up as something that is even worse than death – unceasing torment. And I am certain that is his motive, to emotionally, physically, and psychologically fuck with my head until I dissolve into a puddle of Jew that he can cup in his hands, bringing my liquid corpse up to his mouth and sampling a taste, looking up as if considering the texture, the smell, but instead crooning out, "Liam – _hmm."_

But this, I don’t tell Niall. I turn to him, giving him a smile I know must seem sheepish, "I disobeyed an order, is all." The doctor shrugs his shoulder, likely because he knows I’m lying, but maybe because he understands why I would be. In any case, he leans over to the mound of clothing on the floor, picking it up and tossing it on the bed.     

"Well, it’s better to avoid making him any angrier," he goes, separating the clothes into an organized layout: undershirt, sports coat, tie, pants, shoes, socks, and a pin that’s already stuck to the pen-pocket of the sports coat – the Star of David. Is he trying to mock me? Is he trying to identify the Jews at the dinner table? I just stare at the clothes, annoyed and hesitant.

"You – you want any help?" Niall begins, pointing at the shirt with his subzero hands, leading me to remember how he almost froze my balls off by touch, so I shake my head and move forward automatically, lifelessly throwing on each article of clothing. When I finish, he sits me in a chair and straightens out my clothes, then does the tie for me, since I’ve never worn a tie, and finally, he sprays cologne on me. It smells absolutely amazing, but I don’t understand why he’s going through all of this. I look up at him before he raises his hands in innocence.

"Orders, Liam," he pouts, "I just follow up." I slouch in the chair, looking off through the curtain, between the bunkhouses, watching the sun slowly creep back down. I do this for so long, wound deep within my lifeless state of tunnel vision, that I forget where I’m at for several sweet minutes.

"They’ll be here any minute," Niall informs, sitting as his desk going through paper work, "but you look great, and if you just smile and nod through it," he shrugs, his blue eyes almost glazing over, "you’ll be fine." An attempt to smile is there, but instead, he just turns around, continuing to filter through his papers. Out the window, I see the guards coming, likely to be my escorts to the dinner, which is more than likely to be in the commander’s abode, a place no Jew has ever step foot in. It does not feel like a privilege, however. It feels that I’ll need to take a bath afterward.

I watch Niall work, in his wonderful patience and charm, as I fiddle with my Star of David pin, counting the tiles on the floor, the cracks in the ceiling, trying to not think up bastard scenarios that could await me. The room is hushed, the world outside seems peaceful, and as everything feels to be in slow motion, a rare sense of a gut-feeling dawns on me that something good could come from this. Of all the terrible possibilities, there could be something great.

I then remind myself, once more, to stop teasing myself, and on cue, the door swings open and two guards beckon me onward to something that I decide will either be my doom or my salvation. Likely, it will be both. Hopefully, it will.

I arrive at the door to the commander’s house, it being guarded by two soldiers on the roof and two by the door. As the escort-guards push me forward, the door opening to reveal a lush interior, one of the door-guards leans in at the last moment, discreetly whispering so that only I pick up, "thank you."

I catch a fleeting glimpse of Tomlinson, stone in his pose, with an almost unreadable smile on his face. ‘This one is special’, my last thought before being heralded by a group of German officers to a feast like I’ve never witnessed before.

Why me? Why does Yuri court me around, harassing me and abusing me in the name of some absurd adoration? At the end of the table, as the head of the party, Yuri sits at his make-shift throne, a drunken smile plastered to his face, a seat beside him that his hand rests on, patting me over with a sickening laugh, his comrades watching me like the act I am. I decide to ignore this.

The decorations are unbelievable; the people are dressed in outfits that are both risqué and elegant, and the food ranges from cultures all across the world, sweets and meats practically spilling off the table in an effort to climb into the guests’ laps. Surrounding the dinner table are not only several high-ranking German officers of the Scheherazade camp, but also Jewish boys and girls, all sat next to an officer as if they are dates to the event. Each of them stares at me like they know something I don’t, like something is waiting for me and I just can’t see it yet. The Germans are the guests in formal attire, their Jewish counterparts suited up in revealing, almost transparent sets of wear, as if they all decided on a humiliating dress code for them, but Yuri decided I could dress like a German. And I start to feel sick.

I am frozen in place, trying to understand what exactly is about to happen at this dinner. And that is when I notice it. The one thing I should have known better to forget. Always expect it, when it comes to _him_.

A bowl of cherries, dead in the center of the table.

 

* * *

   **Zayn**

 

100,000 Marks; if I had it, that’s how much I would pay to get rid of my hangover. The sun, as rude as ever, bursts its obscene light at my face and wakes me up with such a lack of gentleness, I almost take back all of the good things I said about it.

"I thought I could count on you," I think, but not dare to say, lest the pounding in my head escape and manifest into an actual hammer that knocks my skull out of place. Actually, I might prefer that. In any case, I decide if I’m going to be in pain, I might as well embrace it and take on some more, finishing up last night’s unfinished work. I look over to Perrie and see her still heavily sleeping, probably knocked the hell out from the whiskey, which she deserves some good sleep. I creep out of the bed and reorganize my papers back, the sound of them sliding together making me want to howl, but I keep my shit together.

I’m filtering through my "Miscellaneous" pile when I come across a page titled "Commander’s Private Expenses," which would remain to be absolutely uninteresting if I hadn’t caught the phrase "Personal Jew" and an expense amount for this solely that soars over 10,000 Marks. I stare at this line of print for what feels like several minutes. I consider investigating further when the sound of a key entering my door’s keyhole steals my attention. I scramble my papers up, for no real reason, and turn to Perrie in a state of panic.

But, the door flies open, and in comes the opposite of an antidote for my daunting headache.

"Zaynie – wow!" Yuri looks at the still-sleeping girl on my bed, so I let him build up whatever story he wants to believe, and just shrug. "I’ve heard _stories_ about your talents, but she looks positively wrecked!" The commander bursts into a fit of laughter, one that is so loud and painful, I’m sure Satan himself sent that through him to torture me. And with that, Perrie slowly comes out from hibernation.

"Yeah, it was fine," I mutter, trying to get Yuri the hell out of my room while attempting to telepathically coax Perrie to pretend to keep sleeping. Instead, the bastard hops over to her, leaning into her ears and shouting, "was he rough? I bet he was _amazing!"_ Suddenly, her eyes pop open, and she crawls back and away from him, her skull hitting the headboard with an audible thud. Then the gift of the Devil again, and once Yuri’s done laughing, he turns to me, and like the flick of a switch, poses a serious question.

"Are you still coming to the Officer’s Dinner tonight? It’ll be at my place," he boasts, and I immediately try to filter through my brain for a reason to stay, but I’m too hung-over to think that hard, so I just nod with a stupid smile. He then claps in rejoice, pointing over to Perrie with one childish finger and cooing, "remember, it’s ‘Bring-Your-Jew’ tonight! I hope she’s not _too_ sore to come!" He makes his grand exit, his laughter echoing down the expanse of the halls and also my existence, my head officially calling it quits. I would have short-circuited if it wasn’t for Perrie bringing me back to consciousness.

"Where am I going?" She looks awfully worried, so in an attempt to be kind to my migraine, but be considerate of what she’s stressed about, I lie down next to her and just shake my head in a gesture that hopefully says ‘no big deal’. But she continues, her fingers rubbing on my temples and neck that works wonders against the war in my brain.

"I’ll have to find something to wear," and that’s when I suddenly remember she’s ass-naked in my bed, and that Yuri just unlocked the damn door and invited himself to that image, the idiot. How many Marks do we spend on privacy? None – apparently.

"I’ve got you covered," I get out, my head swarming beneath her massage tactics, "just give me a second to recuperate." I close my eyes and start thinking about the day ahead, how this petty dinner is going to back up my workload – even further – and now I’ve got Perrie to worry about. Next thing I know, I’m being shaken back to life by my friend, but she’s situated in an assortment of my clothes. The sun is considerably less rude, more likely it’s beginning to set, and my headache has almost completely left the building.

"Does it look okay?" Perrie asks, fidgeting with my dress shirt that really looks fantastic on her, better than myself. I nod in confirmation, kicking up out of bed and discovering a set of clothes laid out neatly on my desk; great taste, she’s got.

"I wasn’t _completely_ useless coming here," she says, taking me by the hand and encouraging me to get dressed, which is good because I might have decided to rot in bed until Yuri came in raising hell, but in that _subtle_ hell-raising way he only gives me, it seems, because he has some unexplainable preference for bonding with me rather than the countless soldiers and officers that actually groom his disturbing ego.

"I found this on the floor," she points to a Star of David pin that is clipped to the cuff of her – well - _my_ shirt that she’s wearing, "it had my name on the back of it, and a note was attached that said for me to wear this to the dinner." She shrugs, fiddling with it a bit. Yuri must have dropped it on the way out from his surprise visit. What a guy.

"I want to believe he’s doing this out of some rare kind gesture, but," I begin, looking at the pin as if there’s a torture device hidden somewhere within the thin metal.

"Oh, I know," she finishes for me, "I’m sure he has something planned, but there’s no avoiding it, and I could be out _there_ ," she directs her head to the window, where the majority of the Jews work eighteen hour days, sleep for five hours, eat for one. Here, at least she has a break. "Besides, last night was a gift from God, I think. A break from going to sleep wondering if I would survive until morning…" she trails off, her hands pressed against her stomach. I can almost hear the hunger pangs from where I stand.

"It’s a feast," I assure her, because I’ve been to these dinners before, and though tonight _seems_ to have a different tone built up, I’m sure it will conclude in the same fashion as the rest: the gossiping, the feasting, the joking, the occasional tension between officers, drunken stories and ramblings, then it closes off with a toast. It’s been happening every month for the two years I’ve been here, and they’re each as uninteresting and uneventful as the last; the majority of the officers, especially Yuri, like to hype it up as a global event, however, and while I am eager to assume this will be as painfully typical as the rest, the "Bring a Jew" theme that the commander has set might cause a different feel for the night. Nevertheless, I’m expected to go, and he must expect Perrie, so I’d rather avoid both of us getting into an altercation with his vicious complex, and just deal with what comes.

"Who’s all going to be there?" Perrie asks, a tinge of nervousness in her voice as she styles her hair into a careful bun, using ribbon-strips from the torn lace material to decorate and hold the hair together. I sit on my bed, tugging on my shoes, my eyes trailing over to see that Perrie doesn’t have any.

"Just Scheherazade officers, and their selected Jews, apparently." I get up to bring over a suitcase of fabrics I was given as a gift when coming to the camp. It contains hundreds of gorgeous linens and silk, but it means null to me as Yuri gave it in some initial proposal to sleep with me, which he soon learned was pointless. The fabrics were likely all taken from Jewish families in the first place, anyhow; better to give it back to the only Jew I really know.

"I don’t have any other shoes, but," I pull out some blue fabrics, the thick material billowing to the floor, "you could get creative and make some footwear out of any of this." Perrie gapes at the case of fabrics, reaching in and eventually pulling out matching colors to her current outfit, black and gold. She binds her feet carefully, the black satin acting as a thick padding, then the gold ribbons as decoration over the toes and around the heels. It makes me think shoes were stupid in the first place.

I give her a thumbs-up at her improvised accessorizing, a bright smile blooming on her face. Perrie moves to collect my hair gel from the bedside table, shaping my bedhead back into a tamed figure – bless her everything. It usually takes me half an hour to calm the beast, yet she’s finished in what’s about a minute. She stands back to examine me as a whole.

"Well, monsieur _Malik_ ," she coos in her put-on French accent, pressing her hands against her cheeks as if to be in shock, "the gentlemen won’t know how to keep off you!" I throw a dramatic wrist across my forehead, spinning around and falling backward straight into her path.

"But you’ll protect me," she catches me, "won’t you, Lady Perrie?" She holds back a burst of laughter, nodding her head slightly while her pale face flushes. I notice she’s wiped off the tear-smitten make-up from last night, going to the party with a natural, and of course beautiful look. We remain there in that melodramatic pose for a while, staring at each other and waiting for the other to burst.

"I guess that means your hang over is – _over_?" she puns, suddenly dropping me from her grip. I land safely on the bed, but almost piss myself on the way down, Perrie keeled over in a fit of laughter.

"Sorry, sorry!" she gets out between heaving chuckles, "I played with my brother like this, is all." I wave off her apology with a smile, straightening out my now-wrinkled suit, not that it matters to me, and standing up to check the clock on the wall. I sigh.

"Ready to get this over with, ma chérie?" I ask, my focus now on what’s outside the window, guards and officers meandering over to the commander’s place. Perrie moves next to me, looping one arm with mine and giving me a kiss on the cheek.

"It’s not _every_ evening I go on a date with one of Europe’s up and coming business moguls," she bumps me on the shoulder, and I shudder at this. I know she means well and jest, but it’s something I don’t really anticipate, the taking over of Malik Industries. Current revenue of my father’s mega-company, the multinational megalodon that has a stern foot in the doors of the manufacturing, trading and investment world? More Marks than I care to put my head around.

"That was a joke, Zayn," she assures me as we walk out of my quarters, out onto the camp grounds for all the guards and Jews to watch in confusion, her arm still linked with mine. I smile at her, and it’s genuine, because I can’t be mad at her. It’s something I forget sometimes, that I’m expected to take the weight and glory of my father’s enterprise and make it expand into the Western world. That’s his dream for me, at least.

"It’s not every day I go on a date with the only friend I’ve got," I whisper back to her, low enough that she picks it up, but the crowds and passerby are none the wiser. And it’s true. I’ve been courted across Europe and often Asia, with my mother all of my life, going on "vacations" (obligatory family-friend gatherings) when I wasn’t stuck in my father’s mansion to wonder what the world held for me. I dreamed about the friends I could make if I was allowed off the Malik property, read novels and poetry about camaraderie and wanderlust that led me to believe that true friendship was hidden out in the world, and that I had to go seeking it. Instead, it showed up at my door yesterday afternoon, scantily clad in a piece of fabric that is now nestled tightly around this-friend’s hair.

"You’re a bloody charmer, you know that?" she whispers back, poking me discreetly in the rib. I hold back a grin, suddenly overwhelmed in an escaped thought that reminds me of why this friendship is so dangerous, and why it’s been doomed from the start. The secret I’ve held back in my brain floods forward, my eyes almost spewing with tears, but I keep my shit together. Perrie notices my tension, her brows furrowed in worry until I shake my head.

"Thought of a funny joke," I lie, "trying to suppress the laugh." She continues to hold a stare at me, probably because she knows I’m lying, but gives up. If she knew, that would be _it_ for us. She’d see me as some cruel carbon copy of my father’s lack of humanity, and though I fucking hate lying to her, it’s better for both of us – to just pretend, at least for now. One day, she’ll find out, but it can’t be today.

"I'm sure I’d love to hear it someday," she mumbles, bumping my arm as if to say ‘now cheer up, we’ve got a party to go to’. I don’t think she understands these parties.

Two guards await us at the entrance to Yuri’s massive house, the sounds of laughter and shouting escaping from behind the closed door. As we approach the building, one soldier opens the door for us with a "Good Evening, mister Malik." I try to acknowledge the heartless bastards as little as possible, but this one seems kind enough, so I offer a head nod. As soon as Perrie and I enter the room, the shouting falls silent, Yuri standing at the head of the table with a hand over his mouth.

The officers are retrofitted with Jewish counterparts, the Germans suited up in your typical formal wear, but the Jews – they dressed them like whores. There are ten seats on each side of the table, most of them occupied except for two on the left side, two empty on the right, and one vacant chair next to Yuri. The Jewish girls are outfitted in costuming reminiscent of what Perrie arrived in yesterday, some with Japanese-styled make-up, some with elegant jewelry and accessories, but otherwise, completely naked from head-to-toe. And there are mortified looks behind each of the caked-up smiles they force out. There are mostly Jewish girls, but the two Jewish boys are none too different, with leather collars and ribbons strapped around their necks, some with soldier hats on, but otherwise – nude.

Yuri bursts into a rage of laughter, "I _completely_ forgot!" He bangs a fist on the table in an apparent loss of self-control, his flamboyant cackling stealing his breath away until, unfortunately, he croaks onward. "The dress code for our lovely Jews tonight: ‘ _less_ is _best’_!" The surrounding officers join him in their sick arrangement of humor as the Jews at the table clap in obligation, one of the soldiers smacking his boy across the face, then kissing him on the nose – like a fucking _dog,_ it was _._ I promise to myself, and Perrie, that I _will_ keep my shit together _._ I will _not_ throw a fork between these bastards’ eyes.

"She looks lovely, though, truly," one of the German officers prattles out, obviously looking at Perrie, combing her hand through a Jewish girl’s hair, "she wasn’t one of the vermin, I might have snagged myself a taste!" She finishes this and kicks the table in a boast of self-appreciation for her sickening joke, her hand ravenously pulling down on the Jew girl’s hair, who squeals in response. The group joins in a chorus of unnecessary guffawing while Perrie and I take a seat on the left of the table, facing the two empty chairs before us. The party continues to share revolting stories, poking and prodding at their Jewish dates like play-things, when after a handful of minutes, Yuri makes his way over behind my seat, wrapping his arms around me so that I’d be in a chokehold if he wanted to squeeze any tighter.

"You can eat, you know," he whispers into my ear, the group eavesdropping without shame, his tongue really, actually flicking at my earlobe – sodding fucker. I shudder involuntarily, to which the Germans burst into a cackling cacophony, Yuri taking a cherry from one of the bowls and teasing it in front of my lips, "why don’t you take a bite?" I gently take the commander’s hand by the wrist and move it away from my face, putting on the fabricated smile I have perfected over the years, being a Malik and all.

"It’s in my conduct to wait for the remaining guests," I pat his arms around my shoulder, to which he uncurls himself like a snake, and stands in a moment of silence, giving his guests a look of embarrassment, before continuing onward – as always.

"I apologize, mister Malik, it seems my foolish libido got the best of me," he groans, running a hand through my hair, "as I can’t wait for _my_ special date much longer," he continues to monologue, unclenching his fingers from my head and bringing himself back to the head of the table, the party hanging on his every word, "but trust me friends - and Jews - _tonight_ ," he licks his lips, "my precious cherry will _know_ why they made _me_ commander." And then he winks, my eyes falling down to the uneaten cherry he dangled before my lips moments earlier. Perrie grips my thigh from under the table, checking to make sure I’m doing fine, to which I give a bump of my leg back – ‘yes’.

"But we can’t _blame_ you, mister Liebehenschel," one of the male German officers directs toward Yuri, "I think I can speak for all of us when I say the _world_ wants a piece of the million Mark boy," and he points his freakish finger in my direction, my face instantly draining of color. My reflexes are about to send me flying out of the room like a bat out of hell, which is exactly what I’d be coming out of, when suddenly, a gift of distraction is bestowed upon me, and the door to the outside opens.

" _There’s_ my cherry bomb!"

 

* * *

   **Liam**

 

"There’s _my_ cherry bomb!" I stand in silence for what is probably too long, the German officers collectively laughing at me as the Jews around the table cast worried looks in my direction, except one. A girl, she’s suited up in what I think is a men’s dress shirt and slacks, her feet bound by some interesting satin and lace, her hair neatly tightened by a flowing piece of fabric. Is she special to the Germans, like me?

I look beside her and discover an officer I’ve certainly never seen before, if he even is an officer, or German, for that matter. He’s got a deep tone to his skin, his hair propped up a stylish manner, a gentle look to his face and deep, hazel eyes that show neither the fear of a Jew, nor the hatefulness of a German soldier. Now, I’m certain I’ve stood in silence for too long.

" _Slut_ ," one of the male officers shouts at me, his knife pointed in my direction, "mister Malik already _has_ a date, if your rodent vision isn’t making that _clear enough_ for you." I tear away my gaze from the strange man, opening my mouth to apologize before Yuri bursts into laughter.

"Oh, _Hans_ , come now, didn’t you _just_ say the whole world wants a taste of the million Mark boy?" The German man lowers his knife, keeping a vicious stare at me, licking his lips and nodding slowly. He turns over to Yuri, and like the flick of a switch, bursts into laughter, his face scrunched up and spit flying all about the table.

"Them two beauties – would be _nice_ to see them go at it, though," a female officer chimes in, the group nodding in immediate agreement, mister Malik staring off in an obvious state of either distaste or embarrassment. His Jewish date, the one with the ribbons on her feet, keeps her head lowered, as if to conceal her emotions. I notice there are two chairs across from the couple that are still vacant.

"Come now, Liam boy," Yuri pats his seat next to him, "join papa so our etiquette-ridden friend may begin to eat," his eyes averting to mister Malik, who stares back in an absence of expression. I make a move to cross the room and sit beside him.

"But what of your invitees across from my guest and I?" the man argues, his calming voice a stark contrast to the sounds of the German officers’ incessant sipping and mastication, their Jewish counterparts not eating a bite. I stop in my tracks, watching as the commander washes away a sudden rage and responds whimsically, " _Heinrich_ is a very peculiar German man, Zayn, and instead of selecting one of the many fine Jews we have to offer here at Scheherazade," he signals to me, as if to boast me as one of his best examples, "he put in a transfer for a _specific_ Jew, from Camp Dunyazad, as he saw the boy in pictures and was – _overcome,"_ he barks, the German group launching into a synchronized roar, "by his _virginal_ beauty." Mister Malik, whom now I know to be "Zayn," picks up a stray cherry on the table, placing it back in the bowl of other cherries, then folds his arms on the table in a refusal to eat.

"Tell me, mister Malik, were _you_ the one to officially lift the curse of virginity from your Jew?" one of the female officers pry, a fork-full of meat falling from her lips as she asks. Zayn sits in a frozen form, staring forward past the empty seats and into the wall, as if a picture is going on there and he’s the only one that can see it. I still stand a few steps away from Yuri’s reserved seat for me, though he’s too occupied with Zayn’s lingering answer.

"Yes," his Jewish date chimes in, "he – did." One of the German officers soars across the table, almost grabbing the girl by the shirt-collar before Zayn lifts one finger in halt against the man’s forehead, his other hand gripped around a steak knife, though I may be the only one able to see that from where I’m standing.

"Now, now, Rudolf," Yuri beckons, still comfortably sat in his chair, one hand over his face as if he’s annoyed and not shocked, "let us try _not_ to physically harm the Jew while she’s acting as a date for the only son of one of the most important philanthropists of the German cause - _shall we_?" He sputters these words out as if he’s contemplated and rehearsed such a thought numerous times before, that he must protect this enigmatic character, no matter what his personal opinion of him his. From the way Yuri looks at Zayn Malik, however, like a piece of meat or gold, I have a feeling he doesn’t mind keeping him around.

The German officer, spread atop mushed pastries and gravies, points his fists at the Jewish girl, "Don’t speak out of turn, _bitch,"_  then he crawls back into his seat, the haphazard sweets and fats ladled atop his mountainous belly. Yuri turns to me, flicking one hand over to him, the other one patting a spot on his knee. I think back to the night against the brick wall, his hands around my shoulders, and I almost shake my skin off before my body moves on its own accord to place myself in the lap of the Devil himself. My heart is beating so fast, I almost feel the room pulsing with it. Suddenly, Yuri dings a bell that must have been hidden between the bowls of pudding and the tray of pies, a soldier from the outside immediately appearing in the doorway - Tomlinson.

"Bring in the talent," the commander croaks, his fingernails reaching up underneath my sports coat, untucking my shirt and crawling beneath it, massaging up and down my scarred back, tracing the indents of his belt-assault, taunting me before the entire group, though I’m not sure they notice. His other hand is wrapped around my waist, pulling me in closer to his body, his breath on my shoulder. A young Jewish girl comes in with a violin, her expression one of terror and illness, like she hasn’t slept in days.

"Play us your favorite piece," the German officer named Hans demands, a glass of wine lining his bottom lip. The girl nods, raising her bow to the instrument, and takes in a shaking breath I am all too familiar with. The strings meet the bow-hairs, and suddenly, the most beautiful sound fills the room. Every man and woman is captivated by the sonata, the very young girl playing her instrument as if not out of desperation or force, but out of a mission to create wonder. I flick my view over to Zayn, who I discover is not the only one not watching the Jewish girl play, as his eyes bore into my skin like he’s asking a question, but I can’t figure it out. His gaze gradually lowers to focus on Yuri’s grip around my waist, and I follow it, finding that I didn’t notice the man’s hand trailing down my abdomen, fingering toward my privates. I look up with widened eyes to find mister Malik’s glare somewhat offended by what he sees, and as if on cue, the girl fumbles a note. The room falls silent.

"What did I _tell_ you, dear?" Yuri asks, stretching out the ‘ell’ in ‘tell’, snapping his fingers that are beneath my shirt. One of the German officers kicks back her chair, marching over to the girl and smacking the instrument from her hands. She immediately falls to her hands and knees, her face buried into the floor as she shouts apologies in Hebrew. The German officer lifts the violin into the air and comes down hard onto the young girl’s back, the wooden object cracking at contact. The little girl is screaming in pain, the officers at the table shaking their heads in disappointment, the Jews watching in horror, Yuri’s fingers still tracing my back scars, and Zayn Malik throwing his chair back to shout for it to stop, the officer getting one more swing in that breaks the instrument in half, strings connecting against the girl’s shirt and ripping into her skin, lines of blood splattering on the wall behind her.

"You – are – _finished,"_  Zayn shouts, taking the ruined instrument from the German’s hands and helping the girl onto her feet. I didn’t notice before, but tears were pouring from my face, collecting on the commander’s arm that wraps around me. The officer looks up at mister Malik in disgust, reaching for the girl’s hair until Zayn smacks her hand away, putting a finger in the woman’s face.

"You will be the sole reason the Germans lose this war if you do _not_ sit your _ass_ back in that chair," he demands, a finger pointing to her seat, the little girl bursting from the room in tears. The German woman holds a staring contest with Zayn for some time, until finally she turns with a mutated grunt and falls into her seat, her eyes still focused on him. He turns back to look over the table, examining each man and woman, the Jews, stopping at me, then throws the violin on the ground and sits back in his chair.

"You know," Yuri goes on, as if nothing obscene or important had just occurred, "I was wondering when you would pull that card." His hand that is covered in my tears is now completely groping my crotch, his other hand trailing down my back and fingering at the pants-line of my suit, daring to move downward. I fidget until I fall between his legs instead, one hand still groping my privates but the other just moving back up my spine. "The whole ‘my father practically funds this war’ trick up your sleeve, or better yet, the one about daddy’s company manufacturing _all_ the hydrogen cyanide used in every gas chamber across the European expanse," he goes onward, one hand disappearing from my back and a cigar appearing from one of his pockets, " _that_ rhetoric can make you one powerful son of a bitch." He flicks a lighter over the tip of his cigar, inhaling and exhaling around my neck, the smoke billowing up to my face and sending me in a coughing fit.

"I wonder why you don’t use it so much, baby," he goes on, the entirety of the room focused on what he’s about to say, the cigar dangling from his mouth as he combs his not-crotch-groping hand through the prickles of hair on my head as I finish up hacking out my lungs. "Is it because you aren’t _proud?"_ I then feel a kiss on the back of my neck, his hand massaging my privates and making me want to kill myself with the steak knife laid a few inches before me. "Because, well, _I’m_ real proud of what we’ve got here – what we’ve _accomplished_ here!" He then leans into my shoulder and bites, giving a freakish grunt while one hand tries to take my balls off and the other unbuttons my sports coat, then works at the top button of my dress shirt for the room to see. He looks up at the group, then into my eyes, then back at Zayn.

"Don’t his puppy eyes just make you want to _scream?"_  his crotch-groping hand now playing with my eyelashes, like I’m his play doll. Zayn sits stone-frozen in his chair, a daunting look in his eyes as he holds a stare right above my gaze, which I assume is where Yuri looks back at him. The snickering and gasps of the officers accompanies the show I’ve now been forced into performing in.

"And tonight, I think I _will_ scream," he says lowly, both of his hands now cupping my face, pushing my cheeks up and down, then pulling at them, then sticking his fingers into my mouth and feeling my gums, my teeth, my inner-cheeks, and I’m seconds away from throwing up. "And I think my cherry will scream _with_ me." With that, he gives up on finishing unbuttoning my shirt, and instead rips it open with his hands, the German officers whooping and cheering, their Jew dates clapping out of expectation. Zayn stands up in a sudden bout of fury, grabbing his counterpart’s hands, and holds a gaze with me for several seconds before he throws open the door to the outside. A tall, rail-thin German officer stands right outside the threshold, apparently just about to come in the door; Zayn and his Jewish friend side-step around the man and take off into the night. The man stands in a befuddled state, his head whipping around to watch the couple trail away.

"Already causing trouble, Liebehenschel?" the German man says, a bastard smile plastered on his face. Yuri flicks a hand into the air, signaling him to come in.

"Fashionably late, as ever, Heinrich," the commander goes on nonchalantly, "you truly missed a show this time. Our Chief of Finances might require a plate of chocolate and flowers tomorrow morning to make up for this one," he chuckles out. The towering man comes in, a shorter figure following behind him, hidden by his mass. "I hope this means Dunyazad has produced gold?"

Heinrich bellows out a laugh, stepping aside to present his Jew that’s been transferred from another camp, specifically for his _unique_ interests. And that’s when the entire room gasped, and I do mean everyone. Likely, the Germans were awed by the golden chains that hung from the boy’s wrists and arms, probably given to him by Heinrich as soon as he got here, considering the man has a knack for stealing treasures from Jews as soon as they arrive at the camp. The Jews must have been surprised by the leather footwear that the boy was wearing, or perhaps the cotton pants that hung fresh and clean from his waist. Yuri, and I know this to be his nature, must have been taken by the Jewish boy’s smooth skin, his sun-kissed tone, the curves in his stomach, the healthy, beautiful skin that this prisoner has been blessed with, and surely, Yuri wants to tear it apart – like everything else – like me.           

I can only guess as to why the room fell in different forms of shock and admiration; my reasoning, however, is crystal.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Heinrich rubs his hands down the boy’s chest, "meet Harry."

 

* * *

   **Zayn**

 

"The last thing I remember - a _crack_ ," I explain to Perrie, my head burrowed beneath a pillow. I feel her hand clenched in mine, the weight of her body sunken beside me in my bed. The crickets are chirping outside, signaling just how late it’s gotten.

"Yeah, Zayn, it was probably your brain," she jokes, but softly, "or the buttons clicking off that poor boy’s shirt." I flinch at that, remembering how Yuri beckoned at the frightened Jew, _‘come now, Liam boy’_. I recall my mind going into overdrive when I saw the boy’s eyes widen in fear, the buttons popping off his shirt in what felt like slow-motion to expose his scarred chest, the German officers all laughing and cooing like the fuckers they are.

 _‘Don’t his puppy eyes just make you want to_ scream _?’_ They do, actually. Yuri was correct about that one thing, but not in the way that _he_ would be screaming. There’s something about that boy, the way he held glances of compassion for Perrie, for the violinist, for _me_ – there’s something in him, I can’t explain, and it makes me want to scream _for_ him, in _his_ honor. The way he looked up into my face, helpless, desperate as the commander made claim of his crotch with his hands. He’s going to ruin that precious thing. He’s going to tear him apart – even further. I _want_ to scream.

‘ _And I think my cherry will scream_ with _me_.’ With that, I throw the pillow from my face, gasping for air, my face covered in tears I didn’t know were there. Perrie clutches me in her arms, squeezing me against her chest and combing her nails through my hair.

"Talk to me," she whispers, tugging my face up to look her in the eyes, "tell me what’s on your mind. Bring it out." She wipes away the dampness beneath my eyes. I think about the Jew boy, the one in the suit, the one Yuri exposed and manipulated with his hands and I start to shake, rage and regret flowing up my body; I really should have put a fucking fork between those Germans’ eyes.

Perrie holds an expectant look, her hands still on my face, thumbs beneath my eyes, her ring fingers massaging beneath my ears, cooling me down. I search for an easier subject to talk about.

"My dad," I begin, my voice cracking, "I – I’m nothing like that. What he does – it –" she puts a finger to my lips, shaking her head slowly, then leans on my shoulders and leaves one hand to continue rubbing beneath my ear – I take a leveling breath.

"We are not our parents’ shadow," Perrie whispers, her soft tone soothing out my brain, "we are our own people." She lifts her head, pressing it against my forehead to look me straight in the eyes, my hands now enveloped in hers. She squeezes tightly, grounding me from my emotions, forcing me to focus on her words.

"Zayn, you are not your father," she squeezes tighter, "you will never be that kind of man. When I look at you, like I am now, I see someone with such a _powerful_ capacity for compassion -" she shakes me before the tears start flowing again, "you put faith in a _Jew_ , Zayn; you gave me clarity to look at humans with _hope_ again, with a belief that somewhere within _each_ man and woman, even in the recesses of those disillusioned German soldiers, there is a light." I hold onto her, lingering on the words, feeling like this girl and I have been friends forever. Here she is, truly against her will at a Jewish concentration camp, her family and friends most definitely scattered or slaughtered across Europe, yet, she is the one holding _me_ together, comforting _me_ rather than harboring within her own turmoil.

"Now," she lets go of my hands, "tell me about the boy." I raise an eyebrow, slightly taken aback at the suddenness of it.

"What?" I know exactly who she’s talking about, and I know exactly why. I don’t _mean_ to play ignorant with her, but for some reason, it’s not a simple thing to talk about. I’m slightly dumbfounded at how cavalier she was with my secret, my father’s manufacturing of the "death gas," his _charity_ that helped build this camp that she’s imprisoned within. Perrie just moved right past it, bringing up what really has been torturing me as if she knows better – and she probably does. I immediately feel uneasy, the flood of Yuri’s taunts and plans for him rushing in.

" _Liam_ \- you know who," she shakes a finger, a frown coming out. "Do you know him?" And I feel like I do, really. I feel like I spent my childhood staring at a picture on the wall, his face planted in the center of it, an expression in his look that says a million things and nothing at all. I feel like the picture was struck down and I’ve been sent on some journey to try and find that boy and now that I have, I’m absolutely lost. I recall watching him at the dinner, the sounds drowning out around me, my focus stuck to his smile as he was lost in the sonata.

"No, I’ve never met him," the truth, "not until tonight. Why do you ask?" I play clueless again, and now Perrie literally sighs.

"Zayn, cut the foreplay," she warns, a little smile building up. She bumps me on the shoulder with a fist, and I just look down, sheepishly searching for a way to go about this. Perrie jerks my face up with her hand again, which she’s getting rather good at, and raises a brow.

"I just – I don’t want him to get hurt," and here come the tears, dammit. It’s a trigger, talking about this boy whom I’ve never held any direct conversation with; there was just a look, both of decoding each other. She rubs my shoulders gently, letting my head fall beneath her chin. "That –" inhale, " _mother fucker_ –" inhale, exhale, inhale; I can’t continue, but she knows.

"Every day, Zayn, I look around me and I feel that way," she goes, "I see the hollowness in a boy’s stomach, the caves in a girl’s cheeks, the scars across every face and body in my bunkhouse," and she takes a moment, maintaining her cool, "and there’s nothing I can do. And I know that. And because I know that, I can only hope – and pray. I could fall apart out there, crumble to the earth and let those soldiers kick me until the bones breach out of my body," she rocks me back and forth, "but I can’t do that to myself, or to my people. I must be a beacon of hope, because there are so few who can be."

Visions of Liam explode, fireworks detonating behind my closed eyelids, racing imaginations of him in a car – laughing, then him running to catch a ball, then him being tackled by a jubilant dog, assaulted by the canine’s tongue and not by German hate, and not by German guns, and not by German hands, and not by the teeth and grime of Yuri Liebehenschel. He is the face of the Jews, the mascot of their woe, the image of the fight to survive, and it takes over my head and suddenly, the flames and colors seep away, and I look up into the eyes of another success story, another beautiful thing I am so incredibly lucky to know.

"Perrie," I begin, preparing myself for what I’m about to suggest, "I don’t want that man _having_ him tonight." She holds her gaze, the gradual shift from a blank look to utter confusion. She crosses her legs on my bed, folding her hands in my lap, and waves a hand for me to continue.

"I mean, that boy, Liam," I hold my shit together, "the way Yuri talked about him, what he was going to _do_ with him tonight," she keeps nodding, waiting for the punchline, "I want to stop it." I consider calling the idea off, just motioning it dead as a fleeting emotion, and not carrying onward with this potentially deadly, definitely stupid proposal. But then, his words hit me; " _my precious cherry will_ know _why they made_ me _commander."_ And then, there’s no stopping me. I swing off the bed, take the half-empty whiskey bottle out from my desk drawer, and divulge the plan.

Ten minutes of explanation and an empty whiskey bottle later, Perrie grooms her chin with two fingers in deep consideration. "So, what you’re _saying_ is, you’re going to use the obvious _sexual_ attraction that Yuri has for _you_ to disarm, or temporarily _distract_ , the obvious _sadistic_ attraction he has for _Liam_? I’m good so far?" I nod my head, her face falling into a grave frown. She tilts the bottle up into the air, fishing for a few drops at the bottom before she continues.

"You’re just going to _walk_ in there, act even more drunk than you actually are _,_ and _hope_ he chooses you over him? What if he doesn’t? What if he wants you both, or responds violently? What if Liam gets even _more_ hurt because of this?" I flinch at this, closing my eyes to play the possible scenarios through my head, still sure of the plan.

"He wouldn’t hurt me," I rebuttal, "and if I play this right, I think he’ll bend to my will." My body tenses at that, the thought of having to, essentially, become what Perrie arrived at my door acting as several days ago – for _him_. But I know if I don’t do this, I’ll regret it forever. If I ever ran into that boy again, Liam, I’d melt away in regret.

"I don’t get it, though," she presses forward, "I mean, you _are_ an attractive man, don’t get me wrong – but when his _whole life_ is a power-play, why would he chase after you? Why does he fawn after you when he _must_ know that you have control over him? Wouldn’t that crack his complex?"

I laugh at this. Yuri Liebehenschel, the German terror, feared by all and loved by none, chasing around one of the only people in the world he can’t intimidate into his bed. For this, I must thank and curse my bloodline.

"He wants to _wed_ me, Perrie," I chuckle out, shaking my head in disgust, "sleeping with the next-in-line leader of one of the world’s most powerful companies makes him almost as powerful." Her face drops in shock, her nails digging into the sheets of the bed.

"Well," she seethes out, teeth grit together, "that's one way to power. I just –" she lets out a grunt that is both comical and mutual, "when you do this, he’s going to think he’s winning. I _hate_ him thinking he’s got you in his pocket." She lowers her head to the ground, the same way she held it during all of the Officer’s Dinner, obviously a method of cooling herself down. "What if –" she stops, then shakes her head, throwing the whiskey bottle across the bed.

"What?" I can tell she is drastically worried about what she’s about to consider.

"What if he _has_ you, tonight?" I stare down with her now, absolutely in-tune with what she is insinuating. If there is an official list of all the things I would _hate_ to do, one of the chart-topping things would be ‘sex with the Devil’, which could be read as ‘sex with Yuri’, which is probably right above ‘stabbing myself in the face with a steak knife’, which I almost did at dinner an hour ago. But above these both, and what a recent and dramatic development it has become, is ‘let that boy be hurt by him’.

"Then," my voice dies out, "then that happens." Perrie stands up off the bed, coming over to me and holding my hands in hers, looking into me to see if this is what I really want, and I’m not just overcome by some stupid wave of martyrdom. Eventually, when she finds that my conviction is true, she wraps her arms around me and shakes out a breath, her hands rubbing my back in comfort.

"You really need to be more drunk for this."

 

* * *

   **Liam**

 

"45,000 Marks for this one!" Heinrich bellows out, slapping Harry on the back, who yelps in pain. I cannot breathe. This cannot be real. The man turns my childhood friend around, bending him back and forth, showing off his arms and legs like he’s an object at an auction. "And believe it or _not,_ Liebehenschel, I’ve saved my virgin boy throughout the travels and up until tonight, so you must get this show on the road," he pauses, trickling his fingers up Harry’s biceps, to which Harry remains as a statue, expressionless, his eyes transfixed on me as mine are on him, "this room won’t be where _I_ have dinner." I’m about to throw up on this table. God help me. Now.

"And I as well, Heinrich," Yuri competes, a low tone that sends a jolt through my body, "as I’ve only just tonight procured the virgin boy _I’ll_ be feasting on." Harry’s eyes snap wide, his mouth quivering as he always does when he’s scared. Yuri leans in and bites my neck, the Germans at the table bursting into a ruckus of claps and cheers, and then I think; imagine what would happen if they _knew._ What if these pathetic people knew that Harry and I _weren’t_ virgins, and that it was taken from _each other_ , and what if they knew the pain I’m feeling right now, my childhood friend watching me be bitten by a snake, my eyes still empty and staring at him, hoping he had the powers to stop time and drag me the fuck out of here. Instead, a tear falls off his cheek. The Germans keep laughing.

"I see you got my telegram," Yuri unclenches his teeth from my neck to say, a bony finger pointed at the Star of David latched in Harry’s hair, a feather sticking out from beneath. I suppose at Dunyazad, they don’t shave their Jews’ heads. I look down at my sports coat that wraps around my backside, my Star dangling off the edge of the chair.

"Yes, yes, of course," Heinrich plucks the Star from Harry’s head, strands of hair being ripped with it, "now what _game_ are you speaking of?" Suddenly, I’m shoved off of Yuri’s lap, not that I’m complaining. The commander leans over the table, grabbing the cherry bowl and dumping its contents on the table, setting the bowl back down with an audible ‘thud’.

"I thought you people would _never_ ask!" He claps his hands together, a sickening grin on his face as I stand beside him, looking up into his painfully blue eyes.

"Tonight, as most of you know," he pulls me in with an arm, "I will be deflowering my precious cherry." The people clap and nod in response, their Jewish dates hesitantly following suit. One of Yuri’s fingers slowly trails down my bare chest as he continues onward, because apparently, I’m a representative model for anything he has to say.

"But in an effort to keep myself excited, I may have – _overhyped_ it, and I discovered maybe I wasn’t _as_ thrilled as I thought I would be for tonight," he looks at me with a false pout. "It occurred to me that perhaps, it wasn’t _difficult_ enough, courting my cherry to the end," he rolls his eyes, "how _prescribed_." The audience laughs, cheers for him to keep going. "How would _you_ feel if your precious concubine," and Harry’s mouth drops at this, but I’m not surprised – I’ve been called far worse, "delivered _such_ an absence of _challenge?"_ He then stops his trailing hand before it crawls beneath my pants-line, snapping at the woman who viciously beat the violin player.

"Ida," he opens his hand, "your Astra, if I may." The German woman named Ida stands up and curtsies to the group, the table snickering as she meanders over to hand the gun over to Yuri. The commander looks into the barrel, spins it around his fingers in jest, and pulls back the slide to load the gun. Without warning, he swiftly points the Astra at a wall across the room where the young violinist’s blood had been splattered, and shoots a bullet accurately between two slashes of bloodstain. The audience oh’s and ah’s, like idiots, but my heart is racing. Yuri turns to me, holding the gun out before me and raising his brows.

"Go on – take it," he demands, a false grin plastered on his lips. The room is hushed, waiting for me to make a move. From my peripheral vision, I see tears flowing off Harry’s face, his handler’s hands wrapped around his waist, fiddling with his pants and watching the show.

"I -" I try to utter, "I’ve never used one." And I never planned to, not after they were used against my family, against Harry, when they escorted us from our houses, and especially not after Day One at Scheherazade, when I had to drag the bodies of boys who died from these killing machines. I never planned on it, but there’s metal pressing into my chest, and I have a feeling this is an ultimatum. So I grab it, softly, slowly letting the weight fall from Yuri’s grip and into mine. He smiles, and then they clap.

"Now, my boy," he begins, his hands running over my shaved head, across my face, tracing my lips, then, "shoot me." I choke on my breath, the group at the table gasping in reaction, Heinrich laughing for some reason, Harry now shaking. The gun is limp in my hands, pointed at the ground, until Yuri lifts it to press it against his head, holding my hands in his grip, then pulling the slide back to reload it. Sounds of disbelief spread throughout the room.

"Do it, baby," he says softly, "that’s an order." And I feel like I’m about to black out. My heart is racing so fast, my toes are digging into the bottom of these shoes, my eyes are about to pour with water, and I cannot do this. I can’t pull this trigger, even though I want to. I want to do it so bad, make up for all of the lives he’s stolen, all of the people he’s torn to shreds, and even though I would likely be killed right where I’m standing after the fact, I would have taken down the Devil myself. But, I can’t. My God, I cannot do this. Tears are rolling down my face, and I’m prepared for the humiliation that is to come.

"I – I can’t – please," I whisper, shaking, a smile creaking across his freakish face. His grip intensifies, an involuntary shout exploding from my mouth, my fingers almost slipping over the trigger by accident. Yuri’s eyes bore into mine, his blonde hair stuck to his sweating face, his pristine teeth almost reflecting the metal that looms above his mouth. He drums his fingers across my hands, taunting me, casting glances over at the table and winking.

"It’s either a bullet through the brain, Liam," he scolds, "or a kiss on the lips." And disgust should have been the first emotion, then anger, then loss, and I should have put up a fight, made him know how difficult it is to decide between pulling the trigger and putting my mouth on his, but it was an outing. My knees buckled, and the moment he gave me another option, something came over me and I slammed the gun on the table, crushing my lips against his, as if to say ‘ _thank you, you worthless fucking thing’._ And when I pull back, his eyes are closed, his tongue running across his lips, the audience cheering, and I fall into my seat, facing Harry to find him looking at me with eyes that say _‘I am so sorry’._

"Like I said, friends," Yuri boasts forward, smacking his lips in some display of delight, "where's the challenge?" An uproarious cacophony of clapping and shouting follows, Heinrich elbowing Harry with a threatening look until my friend is forced to clap at the devastation of me.

"You’ve given your show, Liebehenschel," Heinrich claps on, “and a show it was, but pray tell," he smacks Harry on the ass, leading him into the two empty seats that were across from Zayn and his Jewish girl before their exit, "what’s this _game_ you’ve got planned?"

"Simple," Yuri directs, nonchalantly jabbing a finger in the direction of the now-empty cherry bowl, "on the back of your Jews’ Stars is their name, _not_ their numbers for sake of making this easier on me," he then points a finger at my Star of David, "pluck the Star from your rat, drop it in the bowl, and we will _raffle_ to see which Jew wins a _prize!"_  The group follows suit, removing the Stars from each of their counterparts, then dropping it into the bowl that is eventually passed down into Yuri’s hands. Yuri takes my sports coat from the chair, removes my Star of David, and flicks it within.

"And what are the prizes?" asks Hans, the one who held a knife at me earlier. The commander laughs at his own private joke, then grabs my hand and sets it into the bowl.

"There are _three,"_ he holds up three fingers to demonstrate, "prizes total, for three _very lucky_ Jews! And with the assistance of my lovely cherry," he leans over to kiss me on the cheek, which I fear may leave a radiation burn, "we will now commence the fun." He answers this, completely avoiding _what_ exactly the prizes are, before nodding his head at me to the bowl in my hands to grab the first Star. I slowly fish my hands through the bowl, picking out a Star that was at the bottom.

"Ah, _Philip_ ," he croons, pointing to the Jew beside the man named Rudolf, whom lunged at mister Malik’s Jewish date earlier on, "you may feast as a German!" Suddenly, as if the flick of a switch and without care for humiliation, the Jewish boy’s hands soar at the table, shoving meats and breads into his mouth that he must have likely not had in years. Why is Yuri doing this? What are his motives?

"Splendid! Now, moving forward," he snaps a finger for me to fetch the next Star, my heart pounding as I grab one from the top, handing it over without looking. "Oh! Dear _Lidia_ ," he sings, pointing a jagged finger at the Jew beside Ida, "do _not_ fail to notice the gift of life," to which he slings the Astra off the table and into the air, sending a bullet into the girl’s left shoulder. Blood spews from the wound and onto the table, Ida measuring the situation in expressions of horror and befuddlement. Yuri casually smiles the situation off, setting the gun back on the table while the group sits in silence, listening to the screams of the Jew girl cascade off the walls around. "Tomlinson!" he shouts, the door swinging open and the guard running in to collect the girl in his arms, bringing her out of the building to leave the room saturated in a thick and uncomfortable silence. The commander brushes off imaginary dirt from his shirt, continuing forth. Suddenly, I notice my silent tears that collect on the Stars of David bowl, my hands shaking so schizophrenically I almost drop it to the ground.

"And lastly, the _grand_ prize," Yuri snaps a finger, my hand hesitating for a moment before slowly searching through the bowl. I look up at Harry, his face pale and absent of life, his eyes shut as if he expects to be next. I pray with all my being that it isn’t him, I can’t stand to see him go through any pain. I pass the Star to Yuri, my heart falling still.

"Ugh," he grunts, tossing the Star behind him, rolling his eyes, " _Liam_ isn’t applicable for this one," then he turns to me with a false grin, like he’s saying _‘so sorry’._

"And _why_ the hell not?" Heinrich shouts, his chair flinging out from behind him, his hands lifting in protest. Yuri simply holds one finger up, his eyes following Heinrich’s movements with venom.

"Because, _lieutenant,"_ he hits the consonants hard, "you will _see_ ; now, I direct you to _seat_ yourself, _compose_ yourself, and learn the delicate art of _patience_." The fumbling officer notices he has crossed a line, taking to his chair and regarding Yuri with a stone expression. The room falls silent once more, the sound of the bullet still ringing in my ears. Then, the commander’s fingers lift before my eyes – _snap._ And so I draw. Why am I saved from this round? Am I involved in this? Has Yuri just saved me from something terrible? I unconsciously select a star, move it into his hands, and close my eyes.

"Oh!" Yuri gasps, his face widening, "oh-ho-ho!" And then explodes into a rage of laughter, throwing down his hands to balance himself on the edge of the table, the star flinging from his grip and bouncing down the wood, around the dishes, spinning in circles like a coin until, finally, it lands.

"Well," Heinrich holds his composure, his eyes furrowed in distaste, "let's hear it." Harry is practically a ghost, no signs of color, no visual of breath or movement. I feel the blood coursing through my veins, my head beating against my skull, trying to crawl out and call it quits, my heart scratching at my rib cage – this is my first time dying. Oh God, give me courage to pick up the Astra before me and send these corrupt, evil men packing. I need strength. I need _something_.

"In an _effort_ ," Yuri slowly begins, running a hand through his blonde hair, another hand running across his jaw-line, "to _assure_ my night with Liam proves _eventful_ at the least," and then Heinrich’s chair goes flying once-more, the man ferociously spouting off how many Marks he spent, title claims over Harry’s body, the traveling he had to go through, but the commander keeps speaking, "Harry will be joining _my_ cherry and I -" and then in a split second, a gun is procured from Heinrich’s pocket, lifting to aim at Yuri’s head, spit and sweat soaring from his lips as a bullet streaks dead between his eyes, a trail of blood pooling down the bridge of his nose before almost collapsing on Harry. His body slumps into the wall behind him, his head knocking against the hole in the wall that the bullet ripped into existence.

"- in a night of romp," and he drops the smoking Astra back onto the table, "and _romance."_  The entire table holds an unbelievable gaze at the commander, some of them in horror, some of them in disgust. I look around the room, recalling as it was only an hour ago; the walls were absent of bullet-holes and blood streaks, and that boy, _Zayn,_ there was something about him that held control over Yuri’s incorrigible wrath. If only he were here to stop this terror reign, this pointless exercise of gunplay and humiliation and –

" _Madness!"_  Hans shouts, his face reddened in fury, his knife back in his hands as earlier on, "you can’t _murder_ a ranking officer, Liebehenschel! You’ll be _hanged_ for this!" Yuri, in his typical dismissiveness, opens his hands as if to invite the blade into him, a twisted grin held.

"Murder? _Me?"_ and he points a finger at Hans’s blade, " _Firstly_ , I’m not the one with a knife at a _superior_ officer, the one _superior_ officer of Scheherazade who _creates_ the laws of this camp, who _enforces_ the laws of this camp, and who -" in a bout of fury he sends a collection of dishes flinging across the room, chocolate desserts sticking to the wall with the violinist’s blood, " _punishes_ those who go against _said_ laws – do I make myself _clear, Hans?"_

The man does not shudder, instead, his hand clicks open like a piece of machine, the knife clattering to the table.

"Secondly," he continues, again brushing off imaginary dirt from his wear, "this is not my gun," and he points to the Astra on the table, "and my gun does _not_ possess such bullets," and then he points to the hole in the wall, "so if you _so_ wish for _‘justice’_ to be exacted, dear Hans," and then he whistles, the door to the outside opening.

"Take the woman named _Ida_ to the showers," he orders to two incoming soldiers, her eyes flooding with water, Yuri plucking a piece of cake off of the plate before him, "she’s been a rather dirty girl." And with that, a chorus of gasps, and several moments of Ida’s exiting shrieks, the ringing of the bullet returns in a room of hushed emotions.

"Tell me, peers, what would _you_ testify occurred at dinner tonight?" Yuri mocks, his hands folded across his chest, face in a disappointed frown. "Would you say that one female officer made a rather poor decision at dinner? Because if I were you," and then his voice lowers to a deadly degree, "that is _precisely_ what I would do." With that, he points to the door, concluding the dinner for the remaining Germans and their Jews. The party filters out in silence, each officer avoiding eye contact with the other as they shove along their counterparts until the door is shut and only Harry, Yuri, Heinrich’s bloodied corpse, and I remain. My childhood friend sits at the table, peering down into an empty plate before him.

"Welcome to Scheherazade, dear Harry," Yuri boasts, a mutated laugh following up, "allow us give you the _exclusive_ tour," and he holds out his hand, his index finger wiggling him closer. Harry slowly stands up, making his way over to the commander who, once he’s in reach, wraps his arms around both of our waists, bringing us face-to-face, our noses an inch apart.

"How _rude_ of me," he croaks, looking me in the eyes, then at Harry, "I didn’t introduce you to your partner for the night," Harry and I examine each other, tears building in both of our eyes, "see, he’s _much_ like you were to Heinrich, _may he rest in peace_ ," he gets out with a bit of a sinister tone, "you’re both special, both coveted, and really, I must say," he brings his hands to cup both of our faces, both of us streaming with tears, "what a _lucky_ guy I am!"

Yuri takes us by the hands, leading us past a door that leads from the dining room into a hallway, the lights dim and glistening over the gold that Heinrich must have gifted to Harry. With the commander in front of us, focused on leading us down to whatever place awaits us, Harry turns to me, eyes widened in fear, lips whimpering, and mouths,

_‘Liam’._

I nod at him, signaling that it will be okay, that it will be both of us, and we will endure this together because we’ve been through so much already, and we can survive this night. Yuri then opens a door that reveals a lush bedroom, the walls painted in reds and browns, a four-poster bed decked with flowing blankets and fabrics, sweet fragrances assaulting my nostrils as the commander sits us on the edge of his bed, backing up to examine the boys before him. He comes forward, a hand on each of our chests, pushing us back so that only our legs dangle off the edge, our faces turned inward to look at each other and not Yuri or his hands that trail down our chests, down our pants, into our mouths. We just stare at each other as this man makes his way with us, the feeling of Harry’s hand suddenly enveloping mine, which Yuri grunts at in liking. The German rips off his shirt, straddling over me and looking back and forth between Harry and I, like a beast deciding on his prey.

"Finally," he leans down to fumble with his pants, "the feast begins."

 

* * *

  **Zayn**

 

"Uh," the guards look me up and down, questioning my choice of attire, or lack thereof, "can I help you, mister Malik?" The one named Tomlinson examines my tattoos, squinting at the thin veil of black material that hovers over my skin, a red bow hanging from my crotch area.

"Yes, of course," I say, clearing my throat, "the commander, I’m supposed to be –" I think for a second how ridiculous I look, but pass it off; this is Yuri’s _thing_. He’d probably take a _Malik_ if they were smothered in dirt and piss. This is just extra, in case he needs convincing. "Does this lead to his private quarters? I’m really supposed to be _meeting_ – _him – tonight,"_  I emphasize these words to smithereens, the guards finally catching a damn hint, if the costuming wasn’t obvious enough.

"Right," Tomlinson nods, "of course," he still doesn’t open the door, "so," he shuffles his feet to and fro, the other guard no longer interested, "what does this one mean?" He points at my tattoo that says “ _Zap!_ ” I give him a look that says _‘are you fucking kidding me?’,_ but I relent, sighing out, "Wanted to be a cartoonist, got this tattoo, but here I am, a financial advisor – now, may I?" I push myself past the soldier and go through the door, only to discover the dining room is an absolute fucking horror show. Pools of blood on the table, a dead body slack against the wall, bullet holes in two different walls, and cherries scattered all about the tabletop and floors – _Christ._ I try to compose myself, taking in everything way too fast, running the scenarios through my head, praying like hell that Liam wasn’t hurt.

"A cartoonist, huh," Tomlinson mumbles from behind me, "that sounds –" I don’t give him the time to finish his sentence before I’m darting around the table, throwing open a door that leads to a hallway, the black veil getting stuck in the doorframe and ripping off my body, but I keep going, throwing open bathroom doors and finding empty bedrooms and linen closets. I turn down the hallway to find an extension to the hall, leading down to a bedroom door that’s slightly cracked open. I take a leveling breath, checking the only piece of fabric I now have on that’s wrapped around my groin, and saunter down the hall in a state of faux-drunkenness.

I push open the door slowly, a swarm of fragrances pouncing at me all at once, incense smoke clouding my vision until the scene comes into full focus. Two boys, Liam and some unknown other, handcuffed together, the boy I don’t know straddled on top of Liam’s scarred back, rubbing oil up and down, tears streaming from his eyes. Neither of them notices me in the doorway; then, _he_ makes himself known.

"This is _truly_ a pleasant surprise," he says, positioned in a cushioned seat off to the side, a cigar in his mouth as he continues to watch the Jews on his bed. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He flicks his cigar ashes on the carpet, turning his head to meet me with a smile, then his gaze widening as he trails down my body. I must pull this off. I must do this right.

"Yuri, _finally,"_ I make my way over to his chair, stumbling every other step to let him know there’s alcohol up there, "I had to leave _dinner -"_ a fake hiccup, "early because you got me -" I sit on the edge of his chair, leaning up against him, "just _really_ wound up." I think about the gatherings my mother would bring me to, the way the women would act when they were beyond drunk, frolicking about with their dignity abandoned, and I try to channel it, the only time those experiences will _ever_ come in handy. The commander switches his cigar hand so he can trace a fingernail down my bare thigh, his eyes looming over my tattoos and legs.

"You caught me at a difficult time, pup," he says lowly, fingering over to the boys that now look over in questioning, "I’ve had _plans_ for these two," he growls it out, my skin pouring with goosebumps, but I keep my shit together, throwing a leg over his lap. I lean in closely, right next to his ear, and remember to keep saying to myself: _for the boy, do it, for the boy, do it._

"You’d turn away the _Million Mark Boy,"_ and I gulp before I say what’s coming, because it is painful, and it something I’m going to hurt for, "for a couple of _rats_ at _play?"_  And with that, he dabs out his cigar on the seat, looking up into my eyes and focusing deep, holding it for so long, I almost think he’s found me out. Suddenly, he lifts me into his arms.

"You two – get out of here," he barks, Liam and the other boy fumbling as they slide off the bed together, moving about with complication from the handcuffs. Liam looks back at me as his other part leads them out of the room, both stark naked, one eyebrow raised in confusion, but a smile in thanks. When I know Yuri isn’t looking, I remove the plastered look from my face, and nod, as if to say _‘no problem – really.’_ And then they’re gone, the sound of the door in the other room shutting. And then I’m on his bed, the German man tugging at the ends of the bow, a low laugh reaching into my head, tugging at the seams of my skin, but he _hasn’t_ won. This is just step one. He cannot ruin this for me, letting those boys escape from his clutch. Because I know Liam is safe, I can manage this. I can let him have me, and I can walk away from this, and I will _know – this is just step one._ This man’s days are numbered. I feel it.

"You know," Yuri says, looking up at me with the red bow now strapped around his neck, "I traded _two_ virgins for you," and then his hands start sliding up my legs, my inner-thighs, lifting them up into the air as he positions himself between, looking down at me with a smile that tells me he thinks he’s won. I really hope that isn’t true. I hope this is the first fall of a domino. This is just an illusion for him, that _he_ has the cards. The first trick against his throne. "And while you may _not_ be a virgin," he pops a finger across the inside of his cheeks, lowering it between my legs, "you _are_ a Malik," the finger slowly slides inside of me, his other hand crawling up my stomach, hooking two fingers in my mouth, "and that sounds _better_ than any virgin they can throw at me." And I close my eyes and let him go. I ignore the feelings, the bursts of pain and shouting, the disturbing and overwhelming warmth that is forced within me, his hands digging into my stomach, back, arms, legs, mouth, I just keep thinking of Liam, think of him and the dogs, think of him and the happiness and running from the Scheherazade gates, collapsing in the arms of a friend or family or _my_ arms and he’s crying, but this time, it’s because he’s _happy,_ and sometimes happiness is too much to contain, and it takes you over and I _need_ him to feel these things, return him to the possibilities of _life_ before Scheherazade, and these possibilities tell me that I’m doing the right thing, that I’m in bed with the Devil for a _reason_ , and that reason really fucking _matters,_ and in my mind I keep repeating that this terrible man will never have the satisfaction of knowing…

 

I was still a virgin.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And that's Act One.
> 
> Act Two: Love Like Apples is coming up, so stay tuned!


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